


turn all the mirrors around

by iskra (kiira)



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Gen, also vague death cw, like! violence cw, suicide cw as well i believe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/iskra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there is a long list of what cannot hurt you:</p><p>     the blood of this God is not one.</p><p>//</p><p>also: i should be doing lit homework but look where we are</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn all the mirrors around

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY this is not GREAT but WHATEVER

There is something sweet in the way you break your wrist on the wall outside Mother’s house; in the way no one will ever set your bones for you again, in the way you will heal crooked.

You are quite perfectly alone.

/

You die twice: at eighteen and again –– eighteen.

/

Once, you held a stake to your heart, let the wood splinter into your skin and you took a deep breath simply because you could.

But: your hands hurt as you held it close against your dead, dead lungs.

Maybe if you were braver, kinder you would do it, you would save yourself, save the blood on your hands.

(This is a lie: you lose track of the number of times you hold a stake to your chest and pray).

/

There is a long list of what cannot hurt you:

     the blood of this God is not one.

/

And Mattie wouldn’t have done it, she has more self-preservation that you ever will. She wouldn’t have jumped into that freezing light, wouldn’t have betrayed everyone she ever cared, wouldn’t have kissed a girl, wouldn’t have fallen in love.

And Mattie wouldn’t have done it and you kneel on the edge of the pit.

 _I’m sorry_ , you say, except:

     no one is listening and

          no one cares.

So you bend your head, and you drink.

/

Everything is coming in slight flashes:

     your hands on a boy’s arm, your mouth at her throat, the night sky, your            hands slick with blood, with blood, with blood

Laura, you think, will be furious.

/

Vordenberg is easy to find –– you have killed your mother, killed your sister, killed your brother and his neck snaps beautifully below your hands.

You don’t even feel guilt, pity, terror.

Wonder if that’s you or the blood in your mouth.

 _You, darling_ , Mother whispers and presses a bloody kiss to your forehead.

/

 _Stop it, Calla_ , Mattie says as you tear into the shutters nailed snugly to your Mother’s house.

“You’re dead,” you tell her evenly, and she just smiles sadly.

/

Laura doesn’t scream when she sees you, but Perry does.

You know your hands are shaking, know you are shaking but you forgot about the blood on your arms, hands, neck (mouth).

“Don’t worry,  _babe_ ,” you manage, “it’s not mine.”

“Carm,” she breathes, “what did you  _do_?”

You don’t respond, because Mother is resting her hard hand on your shoulder, because Mother wants you to do something horrible.

 _You always knew she would never love you like I do_ , and you don’t.

“I killed you,” and Laura’s eyes widen; she’s scared for the first time.

“I killed her, Laura,” and you mean: Mattie, you mean: your Mother.

Will looks at you mournfully, his hand in the hand of a little girl, her ribs cracked open.

_We do what we have to, kitty_

The little girl stares at you.

You reach out and:

Laura screams.

The little girl stares at you.

Laura’s neck under your fingers, her pulse, her heart: you press your body close to hers and “You don’t want to do this, Carm,” she whispers.

The little girl opens her mouth.

The God Blood is blurring everything together, Mother Will Mattie Mother Will Laura Mattie Mother Will Mattie Mattie Mattie Mattie ––

She’s not so little, the girl; she looks at you and: she has your mother’s eyes and your father’s mouth, and your black curls.

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” you say again, and Laura is kneeling above you, “my Mother’s coming.”

     Mother stares at you coldly; she puts her hand on your cheek.

“It’s my fault,” Laura says, and she’s crying, and the God blood is dripping out of your mouth, your arms, yourself.

/

You die three times –– you are always eighteen.

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me @ bettymcraae.tumblr.com


End file.
